I hit the door, the wall trying to stay under the threshold, grappling for control, attempting to diffuse the cord that burned almost to the point when the explosion is inevitable. Kick, punch, kick, punch, the tae kwon do routines are ingrained and are my last hope, but as my fists and feet meet the air, nothing feels right. I  can't resist any longer and enter the red zone. 

The carpet softens my collapse, and I squeeze my knees to my chest. I curl into myself, tighter, tighter, I squeeze my arms, eyes, lips tighter, tighter. My stomach is squeezing, too, as my heart  beats faster than when I race. I want to run or scream, but my voice isn't mine anymore. I'm a mute, shivering, rocking mess on the floor. I rock, rock, rock, rock—there's no counting, no thoughts, no space, no time.

The red recedes, and I can breathe again. I'm not in charge, but I'm aware of my body, of the plush carpet under me, of the foot of the bed behind me. I'm covered in cold sweat so thoroughly that I can smell my panic. 

Anger rolls through me, not the outward anger Brenda triggered earlier. This time I'm angry at myself. I shouldn't have lost it like this. I know better. I haven't' had a meltdown like this in over a year. What could I have done? Why didn't I stay in control? Deep exhales help, focusing on the air going from my nose through my throat into my stomach, holding it there, being the one who tells it when to flow back slowly up and out through the mouth helps.

Exhaustion weighs down every cell of my body. I climb up into the bed and turn off the light. The darkness envelops me, and the intangible pressure of it pushes out the anger and replaces it with dull calm. One, two, three—I count the constellations behind my closed eyes. Sleep rescues me.

***

I jerk awake and sit up before I remember where I am, what happened, and the snoring lump on the other side of the king-size bed gets my heart pumping. The grey light filters through the blinds, and I tiptoe around to check. Linda's face is messy with yesterday's makeup, the hair is no longer in artificial curls, and she smells like mint, stale cigarettes, and alcohol. At least she's here, and she's not Brenda. Between Linda and me, I'm not sure who smells worse.

My tiptoeing around didn't help because whoever planned the bathroom location didn't take into account that running the shower would inevitably wake up the person on the other side of the wall. I emerge from the bathroom wrapped in the fluffy white towel and head to the closet.

"You're a sight for sore eyes." The huskiness of Linda's voice forces me to do a double-take and ensure it's indeed her and not her sister.

"I'm going for a run."

"Shouldn't you take a shower after and not before one?"

"Yes. Usually. It was an exception."

"I'm going back to sleep then. It's seven, and three hours of sleep isn't going to cut it." She takes a sleep mask out of her bedside table, rolls over on her stomach, and hugs her pillow covered in grey-brown smudges.

***

Each puff of dirt, each tap of the soles on the asphalt steadies my thoughts, but no solution comes. I have to tell Linda. Do I have to tell Linda? I won't be able not to tell Linda. I tell Linda, and then what? An hour later, the five-mile loop behind me, the anxiety over last night's event dissipated, but the confusion over what's the right thing to do didn't improve.

Before crossing the fifth avenue, I pause to dial Mike. It's eight in the morning on a Saturday, but I know he'll have to be in the dojang by nine.

"Is this urgent?" Loud voices on his side of the line make it hard to hear him.

"No." Because it's not. "Needed some advice."

"Let me call you back in the afternoon. I'm scrambling here."

Angie's number keeps ringing, and I hang up when her voicemail picks up. I don't do voicemails well.

Tall, Jaimie, my parents are not the right audience for this conversation. I have to tell Linda. It's the only way.

Our room is grey, and the blinds are closed, but Linda's sitting up in bed, scrolling through her phone.

"Hey, never managed to fall asleep. Massive amounts of coffee is the next best thing. I'm taking you to the best breakfast spot in the area, and I have planned more gastronomical spots for you to visit."

"We need to talk."

"Come on, Ben. I got back here, and I'm safe and sound—there's nothing for you to worry about."

I walk over and sit down by her feet on her side on the bed. I'm aware of the sweat, and the odor emanating from me. "I'm glad you're OK. But this is about Brenda."

Linda sits up straighter and puts her phone on her lap, her full attention on me.

"Last night Brenda was in this bed and tried to have sex with me, I dropped her into the hallway and... and—" I'd rather pretend the meltdown never happened "—and I don't know what to do."

Linda isn't shouting or crying and whatever is going on in her head remains a mystery because I read nothing on her face that could help me figure it out.

"I see." Linda grabs her phone and resumes typing, scrolling, tapping on the screen while I wait. I'm great at waiting. She looks up and sees me sitting in the same spot. "I have a plan. Take your shower, and I'll tell you what we're going to do."

***

The plan Linda proposes is not something I can agree to.

"But she's not in love with him." Linda's facts to prove the validity of that statement are unconvincing.

We're in a small coffee shop, and the bagel I've finished in an instant was freshly baked here. The lox on it was smoked to perfection.

"Mr. Baxter was particular about your agreement not to ruin the wedding. Calling the restaurant and canceling the rehearsal dinner and the reception's catering is not going to work. You were not in charge of it, they will run it by your family right away, and you'll achieve nothing but more humiliation from your parents."

"You picked up on the humiliation."

"That was the clearest part of the conversation among you yesterday."

"So she gets off scot-free? No repercussions for Brenda once again?" Linda rubs her eyes, and the lack of makeup brings out the dark circles under her eyes. She yawns. Two cups of coffee she's had didn't seem to have helped.

"I maintain that a conversation with Philip is the best way forward."

"Wait until you meet him. Just like my father, he'll be sure I somehow set it up, or that you were the one who tried to get Brenda into your bed." She yawns again, and the involuntary reflex makes me yawn right after her.

"Why would I?"

"That's not about you. Philip will assume you'd find her irresistible. He doesn't know Am has you under her boring spell. My ex doesn't have the weird preference of sleeping with one person at a time that you seem to favor. When I found out Brenda had sex with Philip, I thought it was him who made the move. Now, knowing about her behavior last night I'm convinced it was her doing. And the pregnancy is her way to manipulate him into marrying her. I don't know what her long game is and why she needs him when she could have about any moneybag in the country."

The rest of the day, we spend covering more of New York's hidden gems, while Linda comes up with new, increasingly wilder ideas on how to destroy her sister and I make her see reason and shoot them down. The tortured poet version of her creates dramatic plots of revenge and of unmasking the evil that is her sister. 

We get back early, so I have a chance to go for another run before the rehearsal dinner. Last night's meltdown challenged my resistance, lessened the control I have over staying under the emotional threshold. I can't afford to go into overdrive again, and running is the best preventative measure I have access to.

***

Several rounds of stiff drinks in the upstairs living-room pre-empt the rehearsal dinner. Mr. Baxter, whom everyone keeps calling Richard, doesn't offer me one this time, and I appreciate being left alone. I don't talk to anyone unless asked a question directly and work through a problematic recipe change I couldn't figure out before the trip.

The guests are mingling dressed in cocktail attire. Music filters into the room from the speakers installed in the arches by the ceiling. It drowns the thrum of voices punctuated by an occasional sharp laugh or rhythmic patting of another suit-clad back.

Linda's discussing the state of the online catalogs of public libraries and the essential funding required to maintain the free services with a barrel-chested guy in a suit and tie. She can go on about it for hours.

The door to the balcony is ajar, and it might be the perfect spot for me to get away from the noise. I step onto the stone floor and smell the minty cigarette smoke first, then see a black silhouette with an orange dot appearing, then disappearing in front of it between the puffs of smoke. I turn to leave.

"No need for you to go; I'm almost done." He pivots on a heel and extends his free hand. "I'm Philip."

It takes me two steps to come close enough to shake his hand. With the next inhalation, the amber glow from the tip of his cigarette is bright enough to illuminate a long nose and furrowed brows. The darkness conceals most of his face.

"And you are?" He prompts me.

"Ben." I let go of his hand.

He blows the smoke away from me through a sideways hole in his lips. My eyes have adjusted enough to see his broad shoulders, the square jaw, and to be aware of him peering down at me.

"Huh. You're not a talker then."

There's no appropriate answer that is not self-evident. I step to the side and lean my elbows on the banister. The view of Central Park and the skyscrapers around it is better than it was during the day.

"Which of the sister do you prefer?" Philip pushes the stump of his cigarette into the wall next to him and flicks it off into the back abyss below us. I'm sure that's still littering.

"Linda."

"We have similar tastes. I prefer Linda as well, don't tell her that or her ego will be too big for her head. We had fun yesterday."

That's why the minty smoke seemed familiar: it was what Linda smelled like this morning. More confused than before, I tap my fingers on the stone. It's none of my business, but I ask.

"Does Brenda know?"

"That Linda and I spent the night together? No. But she wouldn't care even if she did."

"And the wedding?"

"Oh, a transaction. My name remains attached to the Baxters. It's not like this is a secret. Linda's known this all along."

Some of the arguments Linda made at breakfast make a bit more sense.

"Are you going to divorce Brenda too after a while?"

"You don't mince your words. I respect that." He takes another cigarette out, lights it, and takes a pull. "I never wanted to divorce Linda. She did it against my wishes. We'd still be married if it were up to me." 

The glass door behind us swings open, and Brenda's lithe body freezes on the threshold. Backlit, she looks like a goddess in one of the commercials I've seen her star in: the gold dress skims her long limbs and appears to be painted on.

"Found you," she purrs. Her eyes land on me, then Philip, then me again. I'm not sure which one of us she's been looking for.  She smiles, and maybe I do know what her father was talking about. She isn't irresistible to me, but I can't help but appreciate her beauty.

I'm not autistic and as a neurotypical person, it is impossible for me to know what an autistic meltdown feels like. I read many accounts of autistic meltdowns recorded by people with autism and amalgamated them to present a possible scenario. Each person on the spectrum is different and experiences meltdowns in their own way, so this is not supposed to represent one true autistic meltdown. Based on my research—there's no such thing.

I'd appreciate any guidance around this and sensitivity readers are welcome to point out anything I might unintentionally misrepresent. Thank you for your help.

Did you understand what happened between Linda and Philip in the past and last night?

What are your thoughts on Philip so far?

How about Brenda?

NaNoWriMo Day 22: 38, 146. I was hoping to get to 40K today but then I needed to rest as well. Still on track.